


On Faith

by kesomon



Category: Early Edition (TV), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Oracles, Psychic Abilities, To be deleted later, WIP Snippet, child death (referenced), no beta we die like meh, once the actual fic is finished, procrastination station, ten years from now, unfinished work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:42:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kesomon/pseuds/kesomon
Summary: "I'm not a goddamn Oracle," Gary muttered, but his eyes fixated on the Paper in front of him.When the media stranglehold on information starts making Gary's job harder, he can't help but remember something Adam Pierson once told him...(Unfinished epilogue snippet of a larger story, see notes.)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	On Faith

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time - read: 2010 or so - Kesomon set out to write a crossover between two shows. Two shows which, some almost 10 years later, have probably passed into history and been all but forgotten by newer fandom generations.
> 
> Early Edition, and Highlander.
> 
> This story still lives on a hard drive, incomplete, five different revisions and numerous updates of writing style, never quite reaching that stage of completion.
> 
> Tonight, it struck back, chewing its way into my brain to leave me this: an epilogue to the epilogue, after all is done.
> 
> I have no idea if this will ever make it into the fic. I have no idea if I will ever reach this point in the fic. But I have not given up hope for this WIP, and so I post this as a promise to keep fighting this white whale of a monster story.
> 
> What even the hell am I doing.

"Good Morning, Chicago!"  
_Thump_  
"Mrrau!"

"Good morning, Cat," Gary greeted politely, as the ginger tom twined his body through the human's legs, before darting off to the bowl of waiting kibble. No love lost there, Gary sighed, and stooped to pick up the Paper from its customary spot. The door swung shut with a tap of his foot as he shook out the creases and began his customary skim. Only to pause, heart sinking, as a side column on page 3 caught his eye.

"Not again," he muttered, and tossed the paper on the table, anger sharp in the motions of getting all the accoutrements of a bowl of cereal. Breakfast in hand, he sat down at the table and crunched irritably through his corn flakes, glowering at the offending article as if he could sear it from existence by will alone.

' _Child, five, injured in school trip accident,'_ read the headline, and not much else. The family had not spoken to reporters about the details, only that the kid was in hospital and not projected to make it. There was nothing Gary could work off of. The grip of confidentiality politics and media relations saw to that.

The Cat leapt up onto the table, sniffed delicately at the article's ink, and then sat, eyeing Gary with expectant interest.

"Well what do you want me to do?" Gary protested, unsettled. "It doesn't even tell me where, let alone when."

"Mau," said the Cat, and settled himself down in a sphinx-pose, the article framed by his paws.

Gary swallowed against a lump suddenly lodged in his throat.

_What makes an Oracle and a Seer different,_ Adam had said, that night months back, standing beneath the watchful ruby gaze of Anubis in the museum storehouse, _is faith. Faith in themselves and the power they wield. What is your faith, Gary Hobson?_

"I'm not a goddamn Oracle," the man muttered now, but his eyes fixated on the paper. "I'm not a god forsaken Seer either." But he couldn't just _give in. What did that make him?_

_...it makes **me** ,_ he concluded, and set aside his bowl. The Cat got up and began lapping at the leftover milk as Gary pulled the Paper forward again to read the article in full.

_'5-year old Samantha Farris was on a school trip when an unfortunate accident occurred...'_ the article read, giving no details, no photograph of the little girl. Yet Gary could picture it in his head: dark hair, bright brown eyes; a blue and yellow jacket with a cartoon horse on the sleeve, visible as she darted past a dial clock, hands pointed to 3 and 7. It unspooled in his mind like watching a movie, almost slow-motion in its clarity.

_A cable on an outdoor exhibit, swaying in the wind. The bulk of a heavy Native American canoe rocking, creaking unsteadily. The twanging snap of metal rending free; the moment of fright on the young girl’s face as it fell towards her; the looks of shock and horror on the bystanders around-_

Gary sucked in a sharp gasp, rocking back from the table, hands trembling with the visual, and the answer came unbidden to his lips. “The arts museum.”

The Cat lifted his head and licked his whiskers as the man flurried around his apartment, shoving feet into pants and struggling into his jacket, dashing out of the apartment in hopes of reaching the museum in time to convince someone to catch the fault in the failing cables.

The Paper lay abandoned on the table. With a last look at the printed type, the Cat gave a self-satisfied purr and jumped down to follow Gary’s path, tail upright in confidence.

At the threshold, he paused, and pointed ears swiveled in concentration as he looked back at the doorknob.

With a quiet _shnick_ , the door swung quietly shut behind him.


End file.
